The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

Either way - in a populated area or the woods - I would make sure we all made it out of here.

But an hour past.

An hour and ten.

Then feet.

Boots.

And something else.

Something I heard a million times before.

From my mom.

The girls club.

My friends.

From even myself.

Heels.

But, no.

That couldn't be right.

This was a place of masculine evil.

It was no place for a woman in heels.

But they kept coming closer, somehow matching the thumping of my confused heart.

The boots stopped first.

The knob turned.

I raised my arms, ready to stab forward if necessary.

And, well, at this point, I was pretty sure it would definitely be necessary.

By any means, Aunt Janie would tell me. You have a right to protect yourself for any reason and by any means.

I had a right to defend myself, God-given and undeniable, up to death, right through it.

"Well, well," A woman's voice said, low and almost melodic, but in a cold way, like the chicks in movies you just knew were going to end up stabbing someone or stealing someone else's husband. "It seems this little mouse refuses to be caged. Something will need to be done about those wooden spikes," she added to the same man who had bound me to the chair in the first place.

He took an immediate step forward, but hesitated, something in his eyes relaying some sort of worry or maybe - dare I even think it - fear.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Saw what she did to Harry."

"Oh, yes," the woman said, smiling evilly. "Harry. It seems you managed an impressive feat. You ruptured his liver and cracked a rib into his lungs."

Cracked a rib into his lungs.

Into his lungs.

Which would mean sure death if it wasn't treated immediately.

Maybe it was, though, I comforted myself, finding that the idea of killing someone and the practical application of it were two completely different things.

Maybe that was what took so long, getting him to a hospital, getting the situation sussed out.

I swallowed a bit hard, lifting my chin, not wanting any of my uncertainty to show. If she wanted to believe I was a heartless killer, then that was what I would be.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry about that?" I asked, taking my cue from her, dropping any feeling at all from my tone.

"Well, any decent person would. Seeing as I can't have that kind of situation tracing back to me, to here. Harry, unfortunately, needed to be put down."

Killed.

He'd been killed?

Two things tried to fight for space in my mind then.

First, I wasn't a killer. I mean, if we wanted to get technical about it, he would have absolutely died from the lung puncture that I had inflicted if he didn't get to the hospital soon enough. But, technically, I had not taken a life.

Second, this woman was speaking as though she was the boss.

But the boss to what?

An army of men who preyed on girls.

But, no.

That made no sense.

There was no hierarchy in that, no ruling position, unless...

Oh, God.

She was a human trafficker.

She was a predator of women.

A woman herself.

Something flew back to the forefront of my mind, buried and dusty from time, muffled because I had been pretending to sleep one night at Hailstorm, so my mom and aunts would talk more freely, and I could listen in.

"That's how it is, though," Aunt Lo had been saying. "With women."

"But wouldn't you agree that we are more nurturing by nature?" Mom had asked.

"Sure, but if something happens, something robs a woman of that nurturing quality, there is no more heartless, no more ruthless, merciless creature on the Earth. Give me ten male kingpins over any one female one any day. That's all I am saying."

And here I was, facing my Aunt Lo - by all standards one of the most badass women in the world - 's biggest nightmare.

A female kingpin.

A woman who trafficked other women.

A woman who allowed her men to chain girls in the basement to beat and rape to their evil heart's content.

My spit turned sour, hard to swallow without cringing, but I fought it. I tried to school my face in nonchalance even as I lifted my chin higher.

"Put down?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Hopefully right out in the backyard like the rabid dog he was."

"Oh, I like this spirit," she said, nodding.

Almost like she was... I don't know, proud?

But that made no sense.

Why would she be proud of imprisoning a girl with 'spirit'?

"My goal in life, to impress heartless human trafficking bitches."

Apparently, once you started cussing, you couldn't stop. No wonder most of my uncles, and at least half of my aunts used them to punctuate their points.

"Take a good look at me, dear," she invited, even though I was clearly looking right at her.

"I'm looking right at you."

"Look through eyes not so heavily laced with teenaged angsty hatred," she clarified, making my hackles only manage to rise further. There was maybe nothing in the world I hated more than adults condescending to me, as though a couple of years made that big of a difference with emotions and passions. I knew adults who flew off the handle - both to hysterics or violent rage - far more easily than my age-mates did.